


honey sweet wine; you, by the window.

by lazulila



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Reincarnation, M/M, Reincarnation, Sheith Flower Exchange 2019
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-22
Updated: 2019-07-22
Packaged: 2020-07-10 13:03:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,730
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19906156
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lazulila/pseuds/lazulila
Summary: Dreams are funny things, and sometimes they seem a little too real.Sometimes, they call to you.





	honey sweet wine; you, by the window.

**Author's Note:**

  * For [stellarparallax](https://archiveofourown.org/users/stellarparallax/gifts).



> For the Sheith Flower Exchange 2019, for [Parisa!!!](https://twitter.com/artparallax) Reincarnation AU, with a Fantasy AU aftertaste.  
>  _Honeysuckle, Bonds of love, Generous and devoted affection_

Growing up frugal means that during the winter, the heat is set low during the night. The room's a brisk cool upon awakening, but it doesn't make sliding out from beneath several thick blankets any easier.

His alarm isn't sympathetic.

_7:00_

_7:00!_

_7:00!!_

One hefty, indulgent groan into his pillow later, and Shiro slaps the dismiss button on his phone, snatching his hand back under the covers from the cold lick of his frigid room.

He'd been having a dream, a _nice_ dream, of warm sunny fields and swaying green grass, trees bowing their crowns to the wind.

It had felt so vivid, he'd almost thought it real.

Would be nice to be somewhere like that now.

But he drags himself to the shower, drawn by the idea of heat, and slides the thermostat to something that would make the miserable morning cold worth it.

By the time he's out on the street, bundled against January chill, he's wishing in earnest for spring.

“You are the biggest baby,” Allura chides fondly, pushing a cup of hot coffee into his grateful hands. “It's not that cold.”

She says that, but she shivers before giving a ladylike sneeze into the arm of her coat.

“Uh huh.” Unconvinced, he takes a sip of the mystery drink she's brought him today on their way to the train.

Vanilla latte, this morning.

“Shush.” Sidling up against him for warmth, Allura pushes closer to keep them together among the thick morning crowd.

Every morning, they meet at the corner of Kingsley and 10th to take the train to work, Allura graciously bringing coffee for two from the cafe that sits neatly on her way.

Now that the lid's open, he can smell the vanilla as well as taste it, Allura's arm snugly in the crook of his elbow, three inch heels clicking on the sidewalk.

Vanilla, and--

A flower.

Puzzled, he takes another whiff at the steam.

...Just coffee.

Not much smell comes through sharp winter air, but there was definitely a hint of flower.

“Shiro?”

Allura glances around as he does. “Something the matter?”

“Did you smell something flowery just now?”

“Flowers? No, not at all.” Allura looks around once more, and gives the air a sniff. “Probably someone's perfume.”

“Yeah..yeah probably.”

That night, he has another dream, of deep emerald woods and rich earth browns. Insects buzz and the humid air hums with the promise of oncoming rain.

A fluttering bush tickles his bare hand with its leaves. Closing his eyes for a deep, slow breath, Shiro steps forward, soft dirt tamped down beneath his feet.

When he opens his eyes again, it's to the dark of his room, the streetlamp wafting neon orange through his blinds.

And it's cold.

And it's 5:39A.M.

“Ugh.”

–  


Rain rivers down the window panes, the trails sharp against a backdrop of soft, cloudy gray. The tapping of the heavy droplets on the roof are soothing.

It should be cold, but it isn't.

By the light, it looks like morning; a cover, thick and lusciously soft, is pulled up to his chin, eyes still heavy with sleep.

There's a scent in the air; burning wood, cedar; incense, perhaps, something strong and herbal. Somewhere beneath it, a lingering scent of a flower.

By the window, a figure, starkly dark in shadow, a profile limned by light.

–

“I've been having dreams lately,” Shiro takes an exploring sip of today's caffeine, while Allura pushes a stray lock of hair behind her ear. “Of being in forests and woods. It's warm. Really pretty.”

“Wishful thinking?” She teases, tugging on him to walk with her as the light changes.

“Probably.” He mumbles, and takes another sip of hazelnut.

Over a few months, the dreams become common. Fleeting visions of grassy fields, blurry landscapes of towns he doesn't know, and skies he's never seen, become a familiar place for him at night.

When he wakes in the morning, impressions of times and places fade off like a ripple in the water, and he lets them go, marveling at them all the same, and the sensations they leave. Trying to remember them is trying to reach the landscape in an oil painting; colors rub off on his fingertips, run together, blur with his touch.

Once in a while, he feels the ghostly sensations of a weight in his arms, a comfort that dissolves into smoke the more he tries to recall it. There's more; the remembrance of a hand in his, tickle of warmth at the sound of a laugh he doesn't recognize. A fire in his heart that beats, alive and gentle and powerful, with a hot bloom of white.

But by now, the dreams have become so routine, that before he knows it, Allura is bringing him cold brews and iced lattes to ward off warm spring sun.

The wind brings the scent of a flower he can't name, and he barely notices it anymore.

“Have any more dreams, lately?” Allura pushes the straw through an iced chai, lipstick leaving a smudge of pink when she sips.

“Yeah, actually.” Shiro tucks a pen behind his ear, which she swiftly plucks back off. It only took a pen leaking down his face once for her to never allow him to do it again, even if she had laughed herself silly at the time.

“Oh?” Teasing, she learns forward in her desk chair to waggle an eyebrow at him. “Are they about cold places now, since the weather is warm?”

“No,” Shiro chuckles, “They don't actually line up with the weather.”

“Odd.” She muses with a tilt of her head.

–

Late one September day, is when the wind gusts sweet and strong.

So potent, it sweeps the breath out of Shiro as he's waiting for Allura at the corner, and he looks around for the source—it's so strong, it _has_ to be nearby.

People, and slow crawling cars, a kid on a bike, blinking traffic lights.

A cell phone rings, and a lighter flick, flick, _flicks--_

There.

A flash of red and white catches Shiro's eye, and holds it fast. Wildly shifting in place, he gets up on his toes, craning his neck around people at the opposite corner of the crosswalk, where--

A boy.

Baseball jacket perfect for early fall weather, blaring cherry red and titanium white. A sliver of wrist visible, between where his sleeve ends and his hands tuck into his jean pockets.

He’s turned just too far; Shiro can make out a sharp profile, obscured by a head of dark, disheveled hair. The traffic light changes, and long legs lead the way, nondescript backpack hanging down low from his shoulders.

Drawn like a moth to light, Shiro stares, jaw slacking. Passing people blur glimpses of him, while wind whips his hair, ruffles jackets and skirt ends, and whispers insistently into his ear.

_Look, look._

Someone knocks into his shoulder, grunts a hasty apology he doesn't hear clearly, and then he loses sight of them, gone behind a building on the opposite corner.

Transfixed to the spot, Allura's voice blurs at his peripherals.

“Oof, sorry I'm running a bit late, couldn't find the right palette for this foundation, didn't know _where_ I kept it, and—Shiro? Shiro, are you with me?”

Her hand waves in front of his face, leaves him blinking as if snapped out a dream. When he glances down, he's met with her lovely blue eyes, crowned by equally lovely rose eye shadow and pretty purple liner, brows drawn a concerned bow over them.

“I...uh...” Shiro swallows, it dry and thick. “Did you...”

When he trails off, he's not sure he wants to continue, until she prompts, “Did I what? I brought coffee, same as I always do--”

“No,” Faintly, he registers the moment when she offers him a cup, and he reaches to take it, “No, nothing.”

–

That night, Shiro dreams of a house. Its beams are old and weathered pine, the walls of a soft aged cream. Under his feet, worn wooden floorboards give way to plush rugs of tightly knit wool, weaving threads of dark red and soft gold.

Outside a window, the sun kisses tall grass and a bush with white flowers, silhouettes gone dark against the light.

From down the hall, a voice.

\--

By the time he's awake and brushing his teeth, he's forgotten most of it. All but glimpses of ambered sunlight, his vision blurred against cool dark corners from when he turned away.

A splash of cold water rushes the sleep from his tired eyes. He hisses a curse when he nicks himself shaving.

On the way to 10th and Kingsley, he walks with a quicker step, so he's huffing softly by the time he reaches the corner, a burn in his calves. Urgency swells in his chest, and he doesn't know why.

Maybe he's hoping for the scent of a flower.

Maybe looking for a red jacket.

–

Coral-gold sun cuts across the minimalist furniture in rose pink paint washes. A cool breeze sweeps through Meeting Room 2, where Allura yawns openly. She’s not bothering to cover her mouth for the people who left for home long ago, periwinkle nails clicking as loud on the keys of her laptop. Wrappers from their snacks and mugs from their drinks from the day scatter around the desk.

“I'll be here another hour, at least,” Allura spares a glance in her compact to check her makeup. It's still somehow impeccable. “How long do you think you've got?”

“About the same.” Shiro mutters, squinting at the blurring page on his screen. “I'll call it a night after I draft this last plan.”

An especially difficult client culminated in a week's worth of work to be crunched in three days. It's hard to tell how effective he might be being at the moment, what with the...blurry vision and all.

He excuses himself to run downstairs to the coffee shop, and can't resist a smile at Allura's crow of excitement when he reappears with her favorite indulgence: frozen mocha, cocoa powder sprinkled on a light dollop of whipped cream.

“I need to drink less sugar,” She gives a dismayed sigh, somewhat performative, but takes an indulgent sip nonetheless.

“I told them less chocolate sauce, more powder,” Shiro assures her when he resumes his seat, “And with almond milk.”

“You angel.”

Another fifteen minutes later, and another smear of colors across his screen, and Shiro sits back in his chair, shoulders creaking with the effort.

Folding his arms across his chest, he studies the papers in front of him, struggling to assess the drifting words; he barely registers when his eyes droop closed. Before he realizes it, the warm sunlight across his back lulls him to sleep, right where he sits.

Behind his eyelids, images of windswept fields flutter. Skies blue and honey tea green, and pink-purple dawn, dusk. From the corner of his eyes, someone walks beside him, down a path of cool blue stone, glimmering beside tall bushes.

A hand touches his, and a laugh tickles his ear, from very far away.

When he turns his head, a white flower against a field of black.

It's the smell of the flower in that jerks him awake in his seat, to Allura's affectionate chuckle.

“Maybe we should head on home, after all.” Conceding fondly with a gentle pat of his arm, she stands. “Shiro, be a dear and shut the window.”

“Yeah,” He rubs a palm across his eye as he stands, “I got it.”

Feet protesting eleven straight hours of shoes and hard tile floors, Shiro makes his way to the window. Another breeze brushes past, and he indulges in a deep sigh of fresh air.

Pausing for a moment to take in the pretty city sunset, he sets his hands on the windowsill, Allura packing away her things behind her.

It's going to be a long week; a detour to the gym might work out some of the knots in his shoulders.

Six floors below him, the streetlights flicker on for their nighttime shift.

Ten stories below that, a boy crosses the street, his red jacket a bright spot on the dark gray asphalt.

–

Some weeks after that, a Saturday finds Allura and Shiro in their home base, a cafe just about a midway point between their two apartments. They've sworn off talking about work for the day—they've already had enough of that. Somehow, though they end up venting about it anyway, over breakfast and large, rotund mugs painted cutely with swirling colored patterns.

“I can't _wait_ until this project is finished,” Allura fumes with all dignity, stirring her creamer in with more force than necessary. “The _nerve_ of that pig, talking to me like he knows better. I'm the _project supervisor._ ”

“Classic mansplaining,” Shiro agrees. The bruises from their joint sparring session at the gym last night are still smarting, so he can attest to her frustration. “If it's any assurance, Ryner says we won't work with him again after this. He's too difficult.”

“An _understatement._ ” Allura huffs.

At the very least, at least she hadn't flung the man across the room. Her temper is no joke and honestly, Shiro wouldn’t have blamed her.

By the time they finish their food, plates cleared away and on their second cup of coffee, she's wound down into a better mood.

Instead, she’s scrolling through pages of shelter cats, melting over them and despairing how hard it’ll be for her to choose. She's wanted one for _so_ long, and finally moved into an apartment that allowed them—and honestly, the array of fuzzballs is proving a little too tempting for him too.

“Oh, adopt one with me!” She bounces a little in her chair with excitement, grabbing his arm, “We can have kitty play dates!”

“Is that a thing?” He laughs.

“It can be a thing. Why not?” Allura muses, sitting back in her seat and continuing to scroll. “If we want it to be. We're adults.”

In the comfortable lull of their conversation, Shiro raises his cup for another slow sip of refreshed coffee, checking the notifications on his phone.

A passing shadow at the adjacent window catches his eyes, and he glances up.

No red jacket—the weather's too warm for that.

But--

Sharp jaw, sharp eyes. A mop of black hair chopped at the nape, bare above the dipping collar of his deep gray shirt. Shoulders set high and proud.

Transfixed, Shiro watches him pass as though in slow motion, mouth set in a hard line and stray hairs rustling in the breeze, shirt rippling over the form beneath.

Then he's gone, out of the frame of the windowed door.

For a moment, Shiro doesn't move. Doesn't _breathe_.

“See something you like?” Allura teases from across the table. She leans over, trying to catch one last glimpse. With a thoughtful noise, she concedes, “I didn't get a good look, but he seemed cute.”

There's not a cloud in the sky today, and the glare of the sun through the window is almost blinding; Shiro has to twist in his seat and lean forward to try and catch another hint through the fog of golden midday light.

“...My, my.” With a giggle, Allura sits back in her seat, crosses her dainty ankles beneath the folds of her skirt. “It's been a long time since I've seen you so struck by a man.”

“It's, it's not--” How to describe this?

Shiro feels a pull, like he’s being summoned, drawn in and yanked like a loom pulled taut.

His fingers drum rapidly on the tabletop, counting down the time of his waning chance.

“Shiro, are you— _Shiro!”_

He can barely hear her startled exclamation, as he bolts out of his seat and through the cafe door.

–

Why he ran out, he's still not sure, even as his feet slam to a stop at the corner. Whirling about, he catches sight of the boy, halfway down the next block and slipping further out of range with every countdown of the traffic light.

Shiro bounds across the street a half second too soon, earning the ire of a cursing taxi driver. Open hoodie snapping around his torso, he runs like there's nothing else he knows, edges of his vision blurred but for the shrinking figure at the next corner.

Threading through a handful of pedestrians, he bolts the rest of the way, calling just as the far crossing sign changes to _walk_.

“Hey! Wait!”

The boy stops short, stops on a dime, and turns around.

Shiro comes to a halt, panting sharply.

For a moment, there's nothing but the sound of the subway rumbling through the overpass above, sending a flock of pigeons scattering. He’s gasping, mouth dry from the sprint. The people he's run past sidle by, giving the scene a curious glance before moving on.

Catching his breath, Shiro loses it again when he realizes he has _no_ idea what to say.

Face flushing at the pair of confused eyes laser-pointed directly at him, Shiro swallows, bites his lip.

“I...um...”

Brow crinkling in puzzlement, and tilting his head, waiting, the young man continues to stare. Shiro does the same—he'd never gotten a good look at him, but he's sure, this is the boy he saw months ago, that morning; red, like a signal flare.

He's maybe about twenty. Not tall, but lean and athletic looking, shoulders pulling gently at his worn out shirt. Something about how his mouth sets, his jaw locks, makes him look guarded. Maybe that's fair. He did just get chased down the street by a total stranger.

Beside him, a girl mirrors his expression, mop of tawny hair bundled up in a bun at the base of her neck.

“Can we, you know, _help_ you?” She asks warily, clearly giving Shiro a suspicious look over.

“I..uh.”

“You said that already.” Her little stick arms cross over her chest, and Shiro feels the burn up to his ears.

Raveling up his frayed nerves as best he can, Shiro clears his throat.

“Do I know you?”

The boy stares. “You're asking _me_?”

“I just...” Shiro gestures vaguely, not really meaning anything at all. “You seem, uh, familiar...? Like maybe we've met before or something.”

Lamely, he drops his hands to his sides, and for what it's worth, it looks like the boy's mulling it over, as if he had any real reason to take Shiro seriously.

“....No,” He says finally. “I don't think so.”

“....This is the weirdest attempt at a pick up I've ever seen.” With an impish grin, the girl snickers and encourages, “Please, continue.”

Shiro sputters.

“It's not a pick-up, I swear. I really thought that maybe I knew you from somewhere, or have seen you before, and I--”

_I can't let you go, and I don't know why._

“....Do you have some time?”

“...Time for what?”

“I was having lunch with a friend, at the cafe down the street, and happened to spot you.” Shiro gestures, “If you wanted to join us. I'll treat you.”

They glance at each other, clearly having some kind of unspoken conversation. Finally, the girl shrugs.

“Free coffee and free food's got me. The comic shop'll be open later.”

–

Shiro is prepared for the look of surprise on Allura's face when he reenters the coffee shop with the pair—Keith and Pidge, he's learned—but takes it in stride, and moves over to help them settle an extra pair of borrowed chairs at their table.

“Whatever you want, on me.” Shiro insists. True to his word, he pays for a medium coffee, a cranberry scone, some monstrosity Pidge has ordered, and a sandwich the size of his head.

While they wait for their drinks, he sits back down with Allura, already bracing for her pointed stare, wordlessly demanding answers.

“It's...uh--”

“Did you really chase that boy down and drag him here for a coffee!?” Allura breaks into giggles, stony facade dissolved. Leaning in, she whispers, “Shiro, is that his _girlfriend?_ ”

“I, I don't know,” He stutters, “It's not about that. I wasn't looking for a date.”

“That's certainly what it looks like.”

“I...yeah, that's what they thought too.” Shiro admits, “But it's not. I promise.”

Barely placated, Allura hums and sits back, taking a sip of her refreshed coffee.

–

Pidge is not Keith's girlfriend.

“Oh, heck no,” She snickers, “We use it as a cover when people try to hit on one of us, but like. No offense bro, but never. You're like a second brother to me.”

“None taken.” Keith picks apart the scone into bite sized pieces with his fingertips.

“How many shots of espresso are in that?” Allura eyes Pidge's 24 ounce drink, equal parts concerned and impressed.

“Six.” She takes a long sip through the straw. “He said he was paying so like. Why not.”

“Enjoy the heart palpitations.” Keith adds dryly, gaze not lifting from the decimation on his napkin.

“Thanks, I will.” She bumps shoulders with him and takes a long sip of caramel for effect; it gets her a quirk of his mouth as response, before he bites a piece of scone from between his fingers. “Here, try some.”

He eyes the swirl of cream and caramel with suspicion. “No, thanks.”

“C’mon, just a little.” She taunts, pushing it so far into his face the straw pokes his cheek. 

With a sigh, he relents. One sip sends him choking, making a face while she grins devilishly.

“Pidge, that’s nasty.”

“Free.” She reminds, and takes a massive bite of sandwich.

\--

Pidge is dual-majoring bioengineering and computer science--

“How?” Allura stares, baffled.

She shakes the massive coffee drink up for effect.

“Ah."

\--And Keith is studying biology and environmentalism.

“You two are _crazy_ ambitious,” Shiro says, impressed. Beside him, Allura’s eyes are glinting.

Keith just shrugs and picks at his scone some more, while Allura makes pointed eye contact with Pidge, who, when she notices, swallows and perks up nervously.

“....What?”

Shiro works at an architecture and engineering firm, and Allura’s position at its sister company has been developing environmentally-sound and accessible technologies. The program she’s been hounding the top brass to accelerate, includes taking advantage of such tech to integrate into its buildings for more sustainable practices, long-term. Ryner, their direct supervisor, is already on board, but getting the idea up and running is another story.

“You two,” Allura, barely able to contain her excitement, while she slides her business card across the table at them, “Should keep me in mind when you’re ready to job search.”

Stunned, the two of them exchange glances while they take her card, Shiro’s while they’re at it, and write down their numbers and emails in Allura’s notebook.

It’s almost incredible, the coincidence, how Shiro chased down a couple of college kids with the exact credentials she’s been searching for.

Networking aside, it makes conversation easier. Within minutes, Pidge is hunched over and looking at cats with Allura. Somewhere along the line, she shoves the other half of her gargantuan turkey club sandwich at Keith and waves her hand when he tries to refuse.

Giving in, he eventually does take a bite; Shiro has a feeling this is a standard exchange for them, and vaguely wonders how long they’ve known each other.

“Since high school,” Pidge tells him, when he goes about asking, “We got stuck in the same French class.”

“You speak French?” Allura gasps.

“ _Non_.” They answer in unison, and snicker.

“All I wanted was to be left alone,” Pidge recalls, “And Keith was really good at getting people to leave us alone.”

“Until, of course, today.” Allura quips, and Shiro shoves her shoulder, ears red and mouth in a pout.

But, ice broken, it feels like a genuine, natural hangout by the time they’re all ready to finally take their leave. Job potentials aside, Allura casually invites them to hang out again soon.

They accept, and Shiro hides his relief.

–  


Getting to know him is like slipping one’s hand into a favorite, well-worn glove, lost forgotten in a drawer.

How the light lifts cool gray eyes to gold, the minute gestures of his hands, how his sharp shoulders hunch and pull with expression.

They've met before.

They had to have.

It all seems so...familiar.

“I really...don't think so.” Keith insists carefully.

“No? Where did you grow up?”

Keith's mouth tenses before he answers, “Not around here.”

“Me either.” Realizing Keith might not want to share details with a stranger, he volunteers, “I grew up in California.”

“...On the east coast.” Keith allows. “Moved around a bit, but never out that far.”

“Oh.”

But he’s easy to be friends with. At least, to Shiro he is.

“I’ve never seen Keith warm up to _anyone_ that fast.” Pidge jabs an accusing finger at Shiro. “It took me _weeks_ to get more than one-word answers out of him.”

It’s hard to believe now, being that she firmly and unapologetically invades his space anytime she can, and he seems none bothered.

“He’s,” Shiro searches for words beneath her suspicious glare, and Matt’s amused one. “I don’t know. He’s a little closed off, and kind of private, but. I don’t think he’s really that hard to understand, if you pay attention.”

“It’s mostly just a boundaries thing,” Matt agrees, and Pidge squints at him. “Keith is a really complicated person, but he’s not the brooding, anti-social edgelord people think he is at first. That’s Pidge’s job, actually.”

“Shut up!” She snips and throws a pillow at him, which catches, and laughs.

\--

_How do you know me?_

He’s sure--he’s still sure.

Before Shiro chased him down that one Saturday morning, they’d never met.

They get along. Their friends get along.

Their friendship feels too easy, too natural. In a way, it really does feel like they’ve picked up from where they left off.

But Keith has to learn everything about Shiro; where he grew up, what his favorite foods, colors, seasons, animals are. His temper, his patience, the way he runs a hand down his face when he’s exasperated, how he snorts at awful jokes and belly-laughs at the good ones; his soft spot for greasy diner food. His barely restrained sweet tooth, his stubborn temperance towards healthier foods, except for the times he simply can’t resist otherwise.

All these things, Shiro seems to already know about Keith. How he nods, and hums, as if saying, _yeah, I thought so_ , or _yeah, I knew_ , when he does find them out, for what should be the first time.

Moments happen, where Shiro looks at him, and it seems like he’s looking right through him, under the skin.

People have never quite known how to handle him, while the sentiment has always been mutual. But Shiro takes a glance, and folds him gently into place, watches his edges so they don’t fray; stokes the fire of his temper so he doesn’t burn.

Maybe Shiro is just naturally good with people.

But it’s unsettling. It sends uneasy shivers down his spine, to be opened and read like a book. He’s always been nothing but locks and picks. And he doesn’t like feeling like a book, flipped open and easy to read.

_How do you know,_ he wonders, with his nerves curling, the third person of the night in the crowded bar to get too far into his space.

_How do you know_ , he wonders, taking a deep breath and a satisfying chew of his lip, looking for the lifeline of friends who have wandered off to the dance floor.

_How do you know_ , he wonders, when Shiro appears with a hand on his arm, steering him out the door, into the blissful freedom of the street.

“I’ll text Allura to know we left early,” He’s saying, voice sounding very far, past the buzz in Keith’s ears. “I’m pretty tired, too.”

_Oh, how do you know?_

\--  


The sun has set hours ago, the neon lights of city center life buzzing. Fluorescent, technicolor blurs alongside jingles and car horns, and the people that scurry around them, humming with chatter. More than once, Shiro has to grab onto Keith’s sleeve, shoulder, wrist, to avoid losing him in the crowd.

Keith is agile, weaving through people, almost out of distance and nearly out of Shiro’s grasp.

The thought occurs to Shiro that Keith doesn’t want to be caught.

Every time, Keith glances back at him, armored and edged.

“What are you running from?” Shiro laughs, slapping Keith on the back when he leaves him at the subway station.

Keith bites his lip, boot scraping into a flyaway newspaper page to a crumple.

Something sinks in Shiro. Something tight, and cold, and sad; he doesn’t know why it’s so hard to watch Keith leave.

“See you.” Is all he says when he turns towards the brightly lit entrance.

Somehow, it sounds like he’s apologizing.

Keith descend the stairs. Shiro watches, loves, the way his edges glow.

“...Later.”

\--

“Dude, it’s not hard,” Pidge comments dryly, watching him play PS4. “If you like the guy, just ask him out.”

“I--what.”

Pidge huffs and rolls her eyes, like she’s explaining something obvious to him. “Shiro, you goof.”

“I don’t like him,” Keith defends. “Not like that.”

“Are you sure?” She squints suspiciously at him. “Because I’ve never seen you act so sketchy around someone before. Like he makes you uncomfortable or something, as if you don’t like him, but I know _that’s_ not true, so what’s the deal?”

Shiro _does_ make him uncomfortable. Or rather, he makes Keith _so_ comfortable, and that’s what unsettles him.

“That makes _no_ goddamn sense.” She throws her hands up when he tells her as much, and flops on his bed.

“I know it doesn’t.” He concedes, leaning his back against the side, while Pidge listens.

“It’s just like. He knows me a little too well. And it’s kind of weird.”

“We’re both kind of weird. Maybe he just has a way with people like us."

Turning over onto her side, she props her head up on an arm while her free hand strokes through Keith’s hair absentmindedly.

“Right, but…” Keith trails off, hands working familiar patterns over the controller.

He wonders if it's the same, that maybe she has the same vibe, and he's just. Being a baby.

Pidge has been the one to know him best for years, and it was mutual. But it took time for them to get there, where Shiro seems to already know him better than he knows himself.

“...We gotta grow up sometime, buddy.” She muses. “I mean. Eventually. Not now.”

“...Can we just order pizza? And not talk about this?”

“After you admit you have a crush.”

“I _don’t!”_

Maybe he’s just overthinking.

Maybe it’s nothing.

\--

A potluck at Hunk’s that’s 85% his food anyway, includes a buffet of food that puts almost everything everyone else brought to shame.

Keith and Matt had made their way through baking a tray of peanut butter cookies. Pidge had left them to it, and simply brought another killer cocktail mix.

Her tolerance is terrifying, given her size.

Keith still thinks so, nursing his second cup of it. Whatever she had put in it though...it was delicious.

From almost nowhere, Shiro appears by his side, arm crossed over his chest, while he sips timidly at a beer.

Silence floats between them, stifling and unfamiliar.

It fades a little, when they watch a tipsy Allura bench-press Pidge on the couch, her squealing sending them both into a fit of snickers.

Bumping his hip against Keith’s, Shiro risks a look his way.

“Hey. We good?”

Keith ponders his answer, wanting to be earnest. His face is warm. Surely, it’s the drink to blame.

“Yeah. We good.”

–  


Summer comes to full height, with warm nights spent at the park, food roasted over cracking charcoal embers. Days of heat rising from the baked sidewalks, with little reprieve on the distances between home and office. Movie nights run late and sweet in Allura's living room, and beach visits find Pidge climbing Keith in the shallows of the waves, trying to drag him in deeper and screeching with delight when he flings her into the rolling tide.

Allura sips chilled cucumber water while Shiro pretends he's not checking work emails, until she snatches his phone and shoves it in her bag.

Giving him a sharp, knowing eye, she peers at him over the top of her rose-tinted sunglasses with a smile. “Let's go see what the fun is about.”

Lance can try all he wants to posture, puffing out his skinny chest, but one shove of Pidge's foot sends him yelling and careening into the water.

Shiro laughs a little too hard at the way his bony limbs go sprawling, and sets off a cackle from Keith, cheeks red from the sun. Hunk, still snickering, hauls a sputtering Lance up to his feet.

–

It’s late afternoon when Keith leads Shiro up the creaky stairs of his building, to the apartment he shares with Pidge and Matt.

The living room shares space with the kitchen, and a glance at the open doors will tell one Holt from the next. Both are stacked with things, books and papers and tech, but where Matt’s mess is curated and has some hint of order, Pidge’s looks like it met the business end of a leaf blower. There are cutsey plushes piled on her bed, and a violin case propped up against the foot of Matt’s.

While the siblings occupy two small, connected bedrooms, Keith takes the one across the hall.

Shiro tentatively follows, while Keith tells him, “Sorry, it’s kind of disorganized.”

His belongings seem fairly minimal, to the point that Shiro doesn’t know why he’s apologizing when he just saw the trainwreck of the Holt’s collective (brilliant) brain cell.

“Don’t worry about it.” Shiro leans on the doorframe, sliding his hand into his pockets while Keith searches.

It hadn’t been until they had nearly gotten on the train that Keith had realized his wallet was missing. Although he’d tentatively agreed that Shiro could just cover him and he’d pay him back, it would ruin all plans for the bar if he didn’t have his ID on him. 

There are a couple of pieces of clothing scattered about. A bookcase stacked messily with papers and books. A bulletin board with layers and layers of tacked on papers, a few pinned postcards. A few pairs of shoes trailing out of the closet, a lanyard with a couple of keychains hanging from the doorknob.

The sharp silhouette of a fire escape is teased against the threadbare curtain, drifting softly with the breeze from the window. A fire escape, and the shape of leaves.

Shiro doesn’t think anything much of it, until he smells the flowers.

Keith is digging around blindly with his arm beneath the bed.

“Come _on_ ,” He grumbles, “Where could I have left it?”

Searching quickly with the flashlight on his phone, he gives up and goes about searching discarded clothing.

Feeling a familiar weight in the hoodie pocket, he sighs, “Think I found it--”

Shiro crosses the room behind him, swiftly enough that Keith almost jumps at his sudden presence, perplexed as to why his bedroom curtain is thrown open.

Why Shiro is staring at--

“Keith, what are these?”

“....Flowers?” Keith tries.

“What kind?”

“Honeysuckle, I think.”

Shiro glances over his shoulder, and searches Keith’s face.

“...I just always liked them.” Keith shrugs. “They’re from my mom’s. She keeps plants on the balcony. I took one with me when I moved out.”

Quietly taking this in, Shiro opens his mouth as if to say something. Then stops, presses his lips together. It’s there, but something like...disappointment flashes over his face.

“Oh,” Is what he breaks the silence with, and leans down to smell one of the gently curling blossoms. “I see.”

Awkwardly, Keith shifts in place, fingering the soft, worn pleather of his wallet, feeling foolish when he slides it into his back pocket.

“We should get going.” 

\--

Around the end of August, Allura finally finds the cat of her dreams, a beautiful tortoiseshell cat who she lovingly names Marina, with a bright blue collar to match her namesake.

“I could feel it, the moment I saw her,” She croons, stroking through Marina's soft fur, who purrs and presses her head to Allura's chest. “I knew I had to have her.”

Unfortunately for Shiro, her joke becomes something of a prophecy; when he had gone with her to pick up the cat, he had locked eyes with a newly rescued stray.

Although he'd tried to put the fluffy gray tabby out of his mind, he ends up going back.

A few weeks later, Bunny comes home.

“Why Bunny?” Keith's on his couch, the cat worming her way between his hands while he tries to fix the collar around her neck. So far, he seems to be the only one the cat actually likes. Shiro included.

“I had a pet rabbit as a kid,” Shiro pours food and water into bowls, “I was like, four, maybe, when we got him.”

“So was he named Bunny too?”

“You got it.”

Keith smiles. “Bunny the Second.”

“Bunny the Second.”

–

Waves roll serenely along the rose-gold sand, warmed from the now-ending day. Pebbles glint gold and aqua among the sifting grains, and the water, soft and blue, feel cool on his feet, splashing up to his calves.

Shiro breathes in the salty sweet air, gazing at the craggy rocks that jut out into the water. Beside him, he hears singing, gentle and loving.

Words he doesn’t understand, but he knows.

Warmth crescendos in his chest like the sunlit water, until a smile overtakes his face.

He knows that voice, too.

When he turns to look, he knows who he’ll see.

Who it is who’s calling.

\--

Shiro wakes to Keith, passed out on the couch beside him, face half on his laptop. There’s a part way done essay open, with twenty pages of “snhnnnnnnnnnne cf bbbbbbbbbbb”, and he almost laughs himself into a coma.

\--

A few weeks later and on his fortieth hour of his new Warframe file, and Keith is swiping a hand through his hair, knee bouncing idly beside an empty takeout container.

Shiro watches with a Kindle in his hand, not really absorbing what Keith's doing—doesn't know much of anything about the game—and realizes something. Something about the way Keith's shoulder curves, how the cut of his jaw and the long line of his neck reminds him of something he knew long ago.

Working quick and dexterous, Keith's hands manipulate the controller between them, while he yells, curses, and grumbles.

While Shiro stares, the threads weave a tapestry in his mind, sewing together pieces of himself he didn't know had fallen apart.

Almost in a trace, he almost startles when Keith gets up, screen back on the main menu, and saunters into the adjacent kitchen.

Scrambling to his feet, Shiro follows him into the artificial white glow, in time to see him crack open a bottle of Jarrito.

“Keith,” Shiro says slowly, almost breathlessly. With a swig, Keith keeps the bottle mouth pressed to his lip, contemplating him.

“What's up?”

Trying to go for casual, Shiro gestures meaninglessly with his hands.

“Do you think...reincarnation is possible?”

“Reincarnation?” Keith licks his lip free of a drop of soda. “Literal reincarnation? Rebirth?”

“I. Yeah.” Shiro drops his hands, unsteadily grabbing a dish towel and wiping a few drops of water from the counter, for way too long. Keith watches his hand moving.

“See, I.” Falling silent, Shiro clenches the towel briefly between his fingers, nails scraping lightly on the linoleum tile. “I’ve had these dreams for months. It’s been so long, I don’t really think about them anymore.”

“...Yeah?”

“I’m starting to think that maybe, they're. They're not random. I know recurring dreams are a thing but it's just—it's too cohesive. It's all of the same places, the same things. Maybe they were actually memories. Maybe they were things I _knew_.”

Pausing for a moment, Shiro takes in Keith's bewildered stare, tries to slow himself down.

And he can't.

“I want to say I'm sure, but I'm not. But I have them most when I'm around you, and I've had more, or like, remembered more, from being around you. I don't think it's a coincidence. And I think...I think you were there.”

“...So…”

“I think...maybe that’s where I knew you from. Why you seemed so familiar.”

Keith rolls his jaw, slowly. Thinking.

“....Are you trying to decide whether I'm insane or not?” Shiro heaves a thin breath. His hand finally stills, fingers tapping noiselessly at the counter.

“Kinda,” Keith says with a shrug, “But. What do I know? The universe is full of fucking mystery. Maybe reincarnation is a thing. Maybe we did know each other in a past life.”

There's.

_There's more,_ Shiro wants to say.

He had held Keith in his arms, he had smelled honeysuckle from where he'd tucked them behind his ear. During cold nights, they'd bundled together beside the fires they'd set, and watch sunsets from the porch.

Nothing had been as important as Keith's smile, and nothing had been sweeter than the taste of his lips when they kissed.

But how could you say that to someone who helped nurse you through a hangover last week, who slept on your floor with the overstuffed cushion from your second hand couch?

...How do you tell your friend that you think you used to love them?

–

A late summer storm strands Shiro and Keith in his apartment before they can go to a nearby hiking trail like they’d wanted; and instead, they order takeout and watch movies.

Somewhere between the _Black Panther_ climax and the start of a _Fullmetal Alchemist: Brotherhood_ binge, they end up folded comfortably together, burping pad thai and curry at each other until they shove apart in a fierce bout of snickers.

“That is _disgusting_.” Keith laughs and shoves Shiro away by the face.

“You started it.” Shiro snakes his hand under Keith’s hoodie to grab at his ribs, sends him kicking and howling.

“I’ll _end_ it.” Keith returns with a vengeance, wrestling Shiro back until they’re half on the couch, half on the floor.

Flushed, panting, yelling, and still with the occasional burp thrown in for cannon fodder.

A boom of thunder and the renewed crash of rain against the window force a standstill.

Before Shiro can turn to look at the window, he has a hand on his jaw, and lips pressed to his mouth; Keith's hand in his, shaking in his palm.

He laughs.

Keith pulls back as if struck, eyes wide, shocked and hurt.

Shiro shakes his head, and kisses him again.

\--

Outside, the dark sky dims with nightfall, rain insistent. The breeze that drifts through a crack in the window is warm and soft.

“Good thing we didn’t go hiking.” Shiro murmurs against Keith’s temple, who only hums in response and shifts further into his arms.  


\--

If anyone is surprised that Keith and Shiro quietly become Official, it’s not mentioned.

Days become weeks, become months.

Nights are spent tucked beneath, around, between blankets, with sleepy, slow kisses and soft, gentle touches. Many mornings are spent the same way.

They celebrate Keith’s birthday in good company, with a small party on Hunk and Lance’s patio. It’s a little cool, being October, but they manage, blinking purple string lights courtesy of Allura, and a pitcher of Pidge's wickedly strong sangria.

“This is amazing, but this is also definitely gonna kill me.” Hunk downs his second cup, and she snorts and hops up on the porch rail.

“You really want Keith to start off being twenty-two with a hangover?” Lance looks shiftily at her.

“Wimps.”, is all she has to say about it.

Keith isn’t much for being the center of attention, or for prolonged social contact; he’s already worn from a work shift at the warehouse, after his morning class.

All he wants to do is listen to the rustling leaves, smell the fall air, and feel the nightly chill tucked around his shoulders; the light and the chatter is nice, but he’s tired. He could leave early, but it’ll be a _thing-_

Shiro’s beside him, leaning against his shoulder. The weight keeps him grounded, and he can smell the hint of aftershave, lingering from when Keith watched him groom this morning.

_How do you know?_

When Shiro responds to something, he warms from the rumble in his chest, and when Keith starts bouncing his foot, a hand appears on his waist, squeezing and assuring.

_Oh, how do you know?_

\--

Months go by, and turn into a year; Shiro celebrates by asking Keith to move in with him.

It’s a little fast, some of their friends say; but they don’t fight it. They celebrate with them.

They see it. They see that they fit, and even if Pidge and Matt toss stale popcorn at Shiro for stealing Keith from them, no one argues.

Not long after that, he starts packing.

Keith’s parents come to help them move, and it’s the first time Shiro meets them in person, and not hearing their voices secondhand through a call.

Shyly, Keith introduces them, and they both look him in the eyes when he shakes their hands.

He looks stunningly like his mother; all he gets from his father is his eye and hair color, and a couple of touches here and there on his face. In a glance, he feels like Krolia knows all she needs to about him, for she gives him a prolonged, yet enigmatic look. Then she turns away to work, giving her son a soft touch to the shoulder as she passes him.

“She likes you.” Keith whispers under his breath. There’s a rare, pleased twinkle in his eye.

“What about your dad?” Shiro asks later, when they catch a moment alone. “He seems nice, but what does he think?”

“Dad?” Keith heaves a box up onto a shelf. “Oh, he’s real easy.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. He’s just happy I’m seeing someone. It’s been all about grandkids since I’ve been a teenager.”

Keith ignores Shiro’s sputtering as he walks out of the room to find more things to arrange.

\--

Keith becomes an easy presence in Shiro’s life, and the feeling, he hopes, is mutual.

It’s too easy to pick him up from classes after work, and too easy to get used to his cooking.

Bunny loves Keith as much as ever, and is more than happy to have a companion on the odd hours he’s at home, for when Shiro’s at work.

Their days become gentler, even when they’re both bone-tired. Nights become easier, with warmth to compensate for frugality, when it’s cold outside.

\--

“Do I really show up in your dreams?”

At the question, soft and unsure, Shiro glances up from his phone. Keith is finishing the laundry, his hands nervously pulling at an already perfectly folded corner of a towel. His eyes are tracing the pattern, before his fingertips do the same.

Shiro hooks an arm around his neck and hauls him in for a sloppy, wet kiss on the cheek, smacking loudly enough to almost smother Keith’s groan.

“Of course, babe, you’re the man of my dreams!”

“Knock it off,” Keith barks, but it’s tinged with laughter, elbowing and shoving Shiro away. “I was being serious. You said it, before.”

“I did.” Shiro admits, while Keith wipes away the wet trail on his face.

“You think it’s really me? You think it’s really...us? In another life, or something?”

Shiro licks his lip, and absentmindedly traces the deep scar along his bicep, from a teenage accident. It’s a habit, when he’s nervous, when he’s thinking. Keith doesn’t miss it, his roughened fingertips catching on the smooth fabric of the pillowcases as he folds them next.

“Who knows.”

The lighting of their bedroom does no justice to Keith, but he’s stunning anyway, with his hair pinned back, slight tan lines up and down his arms from summer sun.

“Who knows,” Shiro says again, and traces the seam of Keith’s shirt over his shoulder. Keith’s eyes are on him. “It’s what I think. At least, it sort of makes sense to me, even if it...doesn’t. You know?”

There’s music coming faintly from the cafe across the street; their patio is bustling, and a gentle pop song sings of hope and love and scars nearly forgotten.

“...What happens in those dreams?”

“You know,” Shiro muses, and starts putting shirts away. “I can’t remember them very clearly. I’ve been having them for a while now. I see a lot of the same things over and over, and that’s how they stick.”

“Right…” Keith leads, and shoves his clothes into the dresser. “But what are they of, exactly?”

“Well,” Shiro hums, “What I think was my house. Or yours, maybe. The forest around it, and buildings. Maybe a town of something. Honestly? Nothing really that interesting.”

“You think you’re having dreams of a past life,” Keith laughs, “That’s not interesting?”

Snorting, Shiro rubs a hand over the back of his hair. “I guess you have a point.”

“...And I want to hear about it.”

A fluttering of warmth brushes Shiro’s cheeks, and he can _feel_ the goofy grin when he looks at Keith over his shoulder, who looks back at him, as straightforward as ever.

“Yeah?”

“...yeah.”

\--

So Shiro begins to tell Keith stories of their life, the one he’s remembering, or maybe invented. He’s not making anything up, just retelling what he’s dreamed.

“The house seems pretty big,” Shiro clicks his tongue, searching for the words, “And pretty old. I guess we must have bought it or inherited it or something.”

“And we lived there together?”

“I think. Maybe.” Shiro hums, stretching out on the couch. It’d been a long day; whatever Keith’s cooking, it smells promising. “I think there was a little bench by the window you liked to sit by.”

“What, like a cat?”

In timely fashion, Bunny slinks between Keith’s legs to purr softly, before quietly leaping onto the windowsill.

“Yeah, kinda. At least, that’s the first dream I had where I think I saw you.”

“Is that why you decided to tell me about them?”

“No,” Shiro corrects softly, “It was months before we ever met.”

“You’re sure it was me?” Keith’s eyes are wide. “Really?”

With the way Keith looks in the dusty blue of dusk, Shiro can’t help but reach out, and wrap his hand around Keith’s. Fingertips brushing the warmth of his palm, loving the way Keith automatically winds their fingers together.

“Yeah,” He says softly, tugging so Keith will come closer, so he can pull him down onto the couch with him. It’s so easy to wrap him up in his arms, to smell his hair and the faint hint of detergent off his shirt.

“Yeah, I’m sure. It was you.”

\--

The things Shiro tells, Keith doesn’t remember, of course. It sounds like nonsense; but he likes to listen. The way Shiro recalls them, it does sound like a memory, something he knew long ago.

But nothing comes back to Keith, no matter how he tries to conjure up images of the things Shiro talks about; a house along a wooded trail. Towns they visited. The harbor where they’d go to visit for new imports, the fishing docks, or the butcher shop, where they’d buy their dinner if they didn’t catch it in the lake nearby, or hunt it down in the woods.

The taverns they visited when they traveled. Mountains they’d cross, bridges and rivers and fields, and cities larger than any of them.

But they always returned home, to their place down the old, overgrown road.

“We had a honeysuckle bush,” Shiro tells him quietly, over dinner. His eyes are melted steel, focused on Keith’s hand in his, where he’s brushing his thumb over the knuckles. “It was your favorite. You used it for tea and medicines and loved the smell. It wasn’t native to our land, so it was sometimes hard to keep it alive; but you were friends with the botanist witch of the town, and she helped you help it thrive. Most of our garden was taken up by it, in the end.”

Keith feels the warmth in his face.

“But you loved it,” Shiro smiles, “You loved it so much, and you always smelled of it.”

“Sorry.” Keith smiles, chagrined.

“Don’t be,” Shiro says, sincere. “I never minded. By the way, you were _lethal_ with a sword.”

“...A _sword?”_

The more Shiro talks, the more sure he sounds of the things he says. Where he had been uncertain, and hesitant about talking about it in the beginning, he now behaves like they truly were real.

It’s hard to tell, for Keith, if he really believes it all or not. But--

“I wish you hadn’t forgotten,” Shiro murmurs into Keith’s hair one night, when they’re tangled in bed together, ready for sleep. They’d had a little too much to drink at Allura’s promotion party, Keith’s four to Shiro’s one and a half. “I don’t know why you don’t, and I do, but I wish I knew that too…”

Keith freezes; Shiro’s half asleep. He can tell, by the drowsy cadence of his voice.

“...I’m sorry.” Keith whispers into Shiro’s chest, into his heart, and means it.

“It’s not your fault,” Shiro inhales deep, exhales a sleepy sigh. Kind, and forgiving, like the hand rubbing over Keith’s back. Eyes closed, mind going back to a place Keith will never see. “I’ll tell you everything you need to know.”

\--

In the morning, Shiro sleeps in, snoring occasionally. Oblivious and dreaming, while Keith sits on the edge of the bed, watching.

The curtains are left closed, with only a few hints of light at the edges.

Eventually, he lays back down. Curling close, he traces Shiro’s profile with his eyes, finger trailing up his bare arm, escaped from the covers.

_However you happen to know_ , he decides, _I’m glad you’re here._

\--

“You were a magician, or something,” Shiro says excitedly, while Keith chops vegetables for dinner., “You used fire. Made patterns with them in the air and stuff, like this.”

He makes some gestures with his hands, and Keith, amused, only replies, “So I was a fire bender? That’s rad.”

“We never had to worry about getting a fire going,” Shiro laughs fondly, “You always took care of that, no matter what.”

“How’d I know it? Was I taught, like for work or something? What’d I do for a job, anyway?”

Shiro goes quiet, struggling to dig out the answer.

“I’m not sure.”

His tone has gone mellow, a shade bereft, as it does sometimes when he doesn’t know.

Keith slides sliced onion and peppers into a sizzling pan. The oil pops and crackles.

Shiro searches, while Keith lets him have his moment to mourn.

\--

A year turns into two.

Keith enters his senior year of college, and his thesis starts chewing him alive.

Shiro pulls longer and longer hours, as his department integrates with Allura’s team. The transition is predictably rocky, the best laid plans fraught with tension and growing pains.

Stressed and tired, they sometimes argue. But they’re fine, and they’re happy, to say the least. Lazy afternoon naps and nights cuddling on the couch with Bunny making affectionate appearances more than make up for it.

When autumn falls, they allow themselves to be dragged along apple picking with Hunk, with which he makes the most indulgent, irresistible pies. They’re so good, hot and gooey and soft from the oven. Keith swears that Shiro tears up a little.

He himself makes fresh cider and baked honey apples, both of which Shiro tears into just as happily.

For Halloween, Romelle and Allura dress Bunny and Marina up as Eva 00 and Eva01, with matching purple and blue collars and little makeshift craft foam helmets. Pidge and Matt collaborate by putting their dog up in an Eva 02 costume.

The photos are adorable.

Late October, Shiro indulges Keith in a weekend away to a national park, staying at what Lance calls their “love shack”, to keep him out of the hands of a surprise birthday party.

He gets one anyway the next weekend.

Keith’s saved up enough money from work that he returns the favor for Shiro’s birthday. Towards the end of January, they travel out to the mountains. They enjoy the snow and skiing, and have more than one snowball fight that they never tell anyone about.

Spring arrives late, the cherry blossoms by the local arboretum coming in May.

For Shiro’s week-long vacation and Keith’s spring break, they go to visit Keith’s parents. Squeezing in awkwardly on his full-sized bed, both giggle and then drop silent when Keith’s dad raps a warning on their door.

“No funny business.” He drawls, and Keith’s face goes crimson.

_“Dad!”_

Krolia lands a solid smack on his shoulder, audible even through the door, as much as his yelp and her following scolding of, “They’re adults. Behave.”

“I’m only teasing, darlin'.”

An entire day is spent at the park lake, picnic and all. Keith’s massive dog Kosmo warms up to Shiro quickly, but the way he continues shoving his pointed nuzzle in Keith’s lap and hands proves his favorite.

“Take care,” Krolia tells them at the airport. “And visit more often.”

“I will.” Keith promises, unabashedly hugging back just as fiercely.

It’s nice to be home, even if it immediately means return to reality. Keith has a thesis to finish, and Shiro has more ten, eleven, twelve hour days ahead of him.

“We’ll take a nice vacation after you graduate, and work settles down.” He promises one Friday night, while the two of them, exhausted and refreshed by the shower, lounge on their bed with a movie playing. “So start thinking about where you’d wanna go.”

“Okay.” Half asleep, Keith rolls into his side, head on his chest.

\--

Keith has a dream.

A packed dirt road winds through throngs of tall grass, towards a horizon of distant hills. Between their slopes and the tops of trees, a city skyline shines beneath soft, rolling clouds.

Behind him, a wooden fence stands crooked but sturdy, smelling of age and recent rain. He presses his hand to its gaping, weathered grooves, his skin covered with callouses and scars, fresh and old marks he doesn't recognize.

Bowing to the wind, the nearby branches of a flowering honeysuckle brush against his sun-goldened arm.

Light trickles through the gray above; Keith leans down to smell the blossoms, their petals soft and tickling against his palm and his cheeks.

He wakes to the smell of flowers.

\--

Still a little groggy, and hair a little mussed from sleep, he slowly makes his way across the darkened hall to the bathroom.

Washing his face helps wake him a bit, and the promising hint of coffee in the air lures him into the kitchen afterwards.

Vaguely, he remembers Shiro pressing kisses to his temple while half-asleep earlier that morning, already smelling like his aftershave and toothpaste. When he’d tried to turn into it, slink his arms around Shiro and drag him back into bed, he’d only gotten a laugh that had warmly melted his insides.

“I’m just going to the store,” Shiro murmured into his hair, gently untangling himself, “I’ll be back later this morning. Go ahead and sleep in.”

Still reeling from finals, Keith wasn’t going to really argue a late Sunday morning.

As he’d hoped, there's still coffee in the pot.

Keith leans against the counter, scrolling through his phone, chewing on some toast and sipping coffee. It was barely nine in the morning, but he’d knocked out so early last night, he still feels refreshed enough.

A shadow passes through the room. Curious, he makes his way over to the balcony door, peeking at the sky. A passing cloud; was it supposed to rain today?

Beside him, on the window ledge, the leaves of the honeysuckle drift, tickling his arm. The actual plant, they kept outside, but the pruned branches, they left in a little vase by the window. He stops to observe the gentle white forms, moon-white bright against their green leaves.

Shiro claims that it was this scent that had called him to Keith to begin with, and that it was something he’d known from their past life together. He says Keith loved them back then, and oddly enough, it’s true of him now.

For not the first time, Keith wonders if Shiro is really just that good of a poet. Something that fanciful doesn’t sound real. Then again, ask Keith of a few years ago if he’d be where he’d be, and he wouldn’t have believed it.

With a renewed swell of affection, Keith reaches to cradle a flower between his fingers, and leans over to smell its nostalgic scent, the petals brushing over his nose and lip.

\--

The last few steps up, and Shiro’s pushing his key in the lock and turning, grocery bags in his free hand.

He comes in as quietly as he can, unsure if Keith is up by now or not; he was sure he’d passed his finals with flying colors. He always does, no matter how he’d fret to himself towards the end of every semester.

Not that he really says anything. As most things are with Keith, it’s in his gestures before his words. When he starts to huff more, looking over his materials. Stay up later and later, with his hands anxiously fiddling with pens and keyboards. When he accidentally rips pages of his books, cursing under his breath, Shiro knows it’s time to buy better coffee, make sure there’s an extra variety of snacks in the cabinet, and keep the bathroom clear for extra long showers.

But it was over now, and perfect in time for summer, and Shiro planned to reward him with a week of his favorite foods, and at least one hiking trip.

He’s ruminating all this when he slips past the hall into the kitchen, and spots Keith by the patio door.

“Ah, you’re up,” Cheerfully, he kicks off his sneakers, and sets the groceries down by the fridge. “I expected you to sleep a little longer.”

Keith doesn’t answer, and Shiro pauses in putting the things away. He’s always a little slow to really wake up.

“You get coffee?”

Starting to feel nervous at the silence, Shiro shuts the fridge door, and carefully crosses the room. Keith’s back is to him. He doesn’t know what that means, and it isn’t until he peeks over his shoulder that he sees the faraway look on Keith’s face.

“....Keith?”

Lips parting softly, as if to speak, Keith barely seems to register Shiro’s presence at all; the muscles around his eyes are tense, and his eyes themselves--dark, and. Wet. Glinting. Darting about, as if thinking, as if seeing something that wasn’t there.

“Keith,” Alarm roiling in his gut, Shiro gently touches his hand. Krolia’s away on a business trip--did something happen? “Keith, talk to me. What’s going on?”

Jolting softly, Keith’s gaze slowly returns, licking his lips and swallowing hard.

Absently, almost automatically, his fingers curl into Shiro’s, the familiar gesture doing a little to ease the worry, but not enough, at the stricken look on Keith’s face. He’s pale and flushed, somehow both at once.

It takes all of Shiro’s patience to not panic, to wait for Keith to turn and look up at him, and he realizes he’s misread.

Keith’s not sad; there’s wonder, pure and intense, adoration as clear on his face as the tears gathering in the corners of his eyes.

“Shiro….” His voice cracks, thick and raspy. He’s never been a crier.

“...Yeah?” Shiro’s voice falls to match, dropping his head down at the same time Keith rears up on the front of his feet, pressing their foreheads together.

“Shiro…. _Shiro._ ” Keith whispers, the hardwood floor creaking beneath his weight and the sun strong against his hair, his flushed cheeks. Shiro struggles to support both of them, hands flying up to take Keith’s shaking hands, where he’s gripping the front of his shirt.

_“You found me.”_


End file.
